


Bloody Kisses

by OfHealingLove



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Darkfic, Dubcon or noncon, F/M, Horror, I want it to be romance but it won't be, Kidnapping, Nurse!Sakura, StalkerPatient!Sasori, Stalking, but either way consent will be iffy, i don't know yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:52:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9373022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfHealingLove/pseuds/OfHealingLove
Summary: Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, Sakura unfolded the note, preparing herself for another eloquent poem with unmistakable innuendo from her stalker. Instead, her jaw dropped in horror when she opened her eyes. In fine, disgusting detail, she had been drawn spread eagle on her bed, mouth parted in a moan, her fingers slipped between slickened folds, her other hand toying with a taut nipple. Every feature down to the slight unevenness in her left eyebrow that no makeup or waxing could fix and the small scar on her sternum from falling when she was ten were shown. In the picture, she was clearly flushed in ecstasy even though it blessedly wasn’t in color, and it was so real it was almost like a memory.It was signed ‘Hiruko’. She knew with instant despair it would be too much to hope for that to be their real name.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> SasoSaku is my current OTP. Right now, I'm estimating about 3 chapters for this story, but who knows? This is dark, but like, not as dark as my usual, but definitely still dark. So be careful if any of the above warnings will trigger you.

She glanced down at her doormat and sighed in frustration when she saw them.

Another note; another hand-carved wooden trinket. This time it was a ballerina, and Sakura had no idea how whoever the person who was sending her these things—she refused to call him or her a stalker because it would only make her afraid, something which she absolutely did not need her in her life right now—knew that she had been in ballet when she was in elementary school, nor how they knew she had won a martial arts tournament when she was fourteen, nor that she was fond of flower arranging because her best friend was a florist.

She didn’t care to think about those things, but the little figurines that were left on her doorstep, always pinning down a note of “affection,” were much too invasive. A wooden carving of her in her most-favored karate stance; a soccer ball perched on a grassy field; and now her in a pirouette, but the clothing was all wrong. She was scantily covered, and her breasts were too prominent albeit not much larger than they were in real life. The accuracy of the shaping of her body made her chest tight with anxiety, because she usually wore clothing that was comfortable and a little baggy—the perfect proportions that mimicked exactly what she looked like meant that it wasn’t out of the question that this person had seen her naked.

After the first trinket—her posing in nurse’s scrubs over a patient that wasn’t present—that reflected her body type much too accurately had left her making sure her windows were curtained and locked tightly even when she was home.

Rolling her eyes with exasperation in an attempt to cover up deeper, darker emotions, she picked up her little “gifts” and brought them inside. She was sweaty and tired from a long day of work in Konoha General’s ER, and all she wanted to do was take a shower and go to bed, but even though she tried to stall her ever-growing fear by not calling the maker of the notes and figurines what they were, she felt her heart pounding uncomfortably in her chest now that he or she had made themselves known to her yet again.

She opened an old shoebox stowed away under the coffee table and tossed the figurine inside, where it would stay to rot with all the others that had been given to her over the past month. As much as she would have liked to just throw them out, she was familiar enough with these types of predators—she had seen too many of their victims at her job—to dispose of any evidence. She knew that at some point this person would make their move, which was why she had invested in pepper spray on top of the karate skills she had maintained over the years, even if she didn’t compete anymore.

With a heavy exhalation, she unfolded the note. The creases were even and folded meticulously, as if perfection wasn’t just a goal, but a necessity, and she had seen it repeated in every note so far. She had mentally diagnosed the predator as probably having obsessive-compulsion traits. Wonderful.

All the notes up until now had been a sort of poem, ominous in their own right but also horrifically beautiful. She would skim over them, just in case there was anything that would help her identify this person, but there never was anything. She’d used the Internet to learn to dust for fingerprints, because although the police said they couldn’t do anything without evidence of violence—and Sakura often asked herself what the point of law enforcement was if it could only act on the law if said violence had already taken place even though there was clear forewarning—she had wanted to see if she could gather evidence on her own so that when she was eventually assailed, she would be able to get the person locked behind bars promptly.

She had been upset to discover that the person probably wore gloves when writing the note, because there were no fingerprints at all despite having been folded by hand. After the first ten spotless figurines and notes, she had stopped bothering to make special accommodations when picking them up.

Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she unfolded the note, preparing herself for another eloquent poem with unmistakable innuendo. Instead, her jaw dropped in horror when she opened her eyes. In fine, disgusting detail, she had been drawn spread eagle on her bed— _her bed_ —mouth parted in a moan, her fingers slipped between slickened folds, her other hand toying with a taut nipple. Every feature down to the slight unevenness in her left eyebrow that no makeup or waxing could fix and the small scar on her sternum from falling when she was ten were shown. In the picture, she was clearly flushed in ecstasy as she masturbated even though it blessedly wasn’t in color, and it was so real it was almost like a memory.

It was signed ‘Hiruko’. She knew with instant despair it would be too much to hope for that to be their real name.

The longer she stared at the hand-drawn picture, the faster her face flooded with burning heat. Had Hiruko-had she been seen ‘taking care of herself’?

Her lips parted and the note fell to the floor as she scrambled for her cellphone.

It was one in the morning, but her best friend still picked up. “Whassup, Forehead?” Ino said groggily into the phone. “S’gotta be ‘mportant…”

“Ino,” Sakura said, and she herself was surprised when her voice cracked with a sob. “It’s-it’s the stalker. They-they drew a picture…” She felt a hot tears drip down her chin.

Ino was immediately alert. “What? Okay, start from the beginning.”

“There’s-there’s not much to tell…I just came home after second shift and, you know how-how they leave notes? Well…there was a-was a figurine of me as a ballerina, a-and…the note was a picture-a picture of me-of me…” She was hardly coherent with the force of her shocked sobs.

She had been able to just blow it off until now. Even if it was inherently frightening, she had been able to tell herself that it would be okay. Even though she had acted in preparation for the worst-case scenario, she realized now that she had never been able to fully comprehend the horror of what this violation would feel like. Poetry, figurines of her doing innocent things like karate? She had been creeped out, but not totally worried. She had still called Konoha Police Department, but they had admitted they couldn’t do much.

Now, though? Now she was well and truly terrified.

Ino paused. “Of you…what, Sakura?”

“Of me, you know!” Another bout of sobs wracked her body.

Ino was silent for a moment, and then inhaled sharply when Sakura’s meaning finally dawned on her. “You need to talk to Sasuke’s dad. Sakura, this has gone on long enough. I don’t care what KPD says, you badger them until they at least give you a protective detail.”

Sakura nodded through her tears. Even though it was what she would have done once she had calmed down enough to think straight, having Ino direct her was comforting all on its own. Since her parents had died, there wasn’t really anyone to take charge other than the Surgeon General, Tsunade, but she was a busy woman.

“O-okay,” she said quietly, sniffling as she wiped a few tears away. Unfortunately, more still followed.

Ino distracted her with comforting talk about the newest episode of their favorite drama, and goaded Sakura into scolding her for giving spoilers. By the end of the phone call, Sakura was level-headed enough to take a shower and go to bed, though her cheeks felt puffy and her eyes still unpleasantly damp.

Part of her didn’t really want to undress at all, since ‘Hiruko’ obviously was somehow seeing her despite her precautions to keep prying eyes out, but she wasn’t going to go into work tomorrow without being clean. She bid goodbye to Ino and then stepped into the hot spray of the shower.

Although she had been calmed, a few tears fell against her will as she washed. Somehow, she felt so _dirty_ all of a sudden. As if that picture, just by existing, had tainted her. But it was all in her head, she knew that. Nothing had changed. She’d had boyfriends who had seen her naked before. Hell, Naruto, a fellow RN, had seen her naked before, and she hadn’t felt guilty at all! There was nothing different about this.

Except that Hiruko was an unknown, and she had never willingly shown her body to him.

She finished cleaning in record time after that last thought, and dressed conservatively for bed, even though she usually only wore a large t-shirt and underwear. This time, she wore thick sweatpants to go with her usual ensemble, and as she crawled into bed, she double-checked that the curtains were drawn. She knew the windows were locked: she never unlocked them anymore.

She set her alarm for two the next afternoon so she would have plenty of time to run errands before her shift. Closing her eyes, Sakura begged her brain for good dreams, or, failing that, no dreams at all.

Her pleas were rejected.

 

While she was deep asleep, her unlocked window slid open and a cloaked masculine form slipped in. It was a full moon, and the moonlight illuminated her pale face, making her appear angelic. A tan hand brushed a few tendrils of hair from her face, pulled up a chair, took out pen and paper, and began to draw.

 

The next evening, Sakura threw herself into her work so that she would have no time to think about anything. She planned to call Fugaku the next day, because she wasn’t going to disturb him on a Sunday, and with nothing else to do about the matter, she tried to immerse herself so that her thoughts wouldn’t wander in the wrong direction.

At around eight that evening, she was given a new patient—someone who had been exposed to mild but painful poison. It was her job to make sure he drank his charcoal and monitor his condition; since things weren’t too busy that night (yet), they could spare her for an hour of constant monitoring to see how he reacted to the treatment. If his body couldn’t fight the poison off itself, he would have to be admitted so that an antidote could be procured. Apparently, the poison had already been tested and there was nothing in their database that could identify it, much less counteract it. Sakura inwardly wondered how someone would come into contact with a unique poison that couldn’t be treated with the standard antidotes the hospital kept on hand.

Running a hand through her hair and putting a smile on her face—not too cheery, as she didn’t want to seem insensitive to the patient’s state, but also enough to put him at ease and not make him more concerned than he probably already was—she knocked on the door, her chart tucked under her arm and her other hand holding a cup of medical charcoal. She waited for a few seconds for a reply, and when none came she quickly opened it completely, worried that he had passed out.

His eyes were closed and he was breathing shallowly. Quickly checking out the patient’s name—Sasori—she hurried over to him and gently shook him. “Sasori?” she said, gently but loud enough to wake him up. “Sasori, are you alright?”

The man cracked open his eyes lazily, and she was momentarily taken aback by the strange honey coloring. They clashed with and at the same time complemented his blood-red hair, and Sakura wasn’t immediately drawn to the thought that he had dyed it. After all, she herself had pink hair, and it was natural despite everyone else’s denial and pestering her to ‘tell the truth.’

He looked at her, eyes blank of emotion but strangely sharp, and said in a measured voice, “I’m fine.”

Sakura blinked, momentarily at a loss at how calm he was in the face of being poisoned. She quickly recovered, however, and returned the smile to her face. “I’m glad. My name is Sakura—I’ll be your nurse tonight.”

Sasori nodded, watching her intently as she took a seat on the rolling stool by his bed.

“Dr. Hatake said that he wants you to be monitored for a little while, so I’m going to have to stay with you for that. On a scale from one to ten, how bad is your pain right now?”

“Seven.”

He’d said it so dully and without inflection, and there seemed to be no indication of pain in his expression or body language, that for a moment Sakura thought he was lying. But she reminded herself that they’d tested the poison, so there definitely was some—maybe they had given him painkillers?

She checked his chart. No painkillers—of course not, they didn’t know the interaction the morphine might have with the poison.

She made of note of his supposed pain and his odd reaction to it on the chart, then looked up and smiled as if nothing was wrong. “Well, here’s some charcoal for you to drink—it should absorb some of what you’ve been exposed to and hopefully help clear it out of your system. First, though, I’m going to have to take your temperature and blood pressure.”

Sasori nodded again, his blink slow and almost catlike as he took the charcoal while she did the compulsory tests. BP 141/90 – elevated, but not too worrisome yet. His temperature was high, though, 101.7 degrees, but he looked lucid enough and was not acting feverish from what she could see. Pulse was a normal 82 BPM.

After she motioned for him to drink the charcoal, she was just about to warn him of the nasty taste that made some react poorly when he chugged it down, not even a slight grimace of distaste for the thick black fluid that he was drinking so quickly.

Sakura was momentarily visibly surprised. She’d never seen someone drink charcoal without any kind of reaction—it had a very strong taste that was, in all ways, unpalatable, and so she could only think that he’d been exposed to it before. She was discreetly checking the history that had been taken upon intake when he set down the Styrofoam cup with a sense of finality.

She quickly returned to the present. “Would you like some water? I know it doesn’t taste very good.”

Sasori looked at her with a kind of detached curiosity, and when he asked the question, his tone was bland and it didn’t sound like he particularly cared about her answer. But there was something in his eyes… “Have you been poisoned before? Or overdosed?”

Sakura blanched. “What? No-” She gaped for a moment. “Of course not! Why would you even ask that?”

“Those are primarily the reasons medicinal charcoal is imbibed,” Sasori said, completely unruffled by her outburst. Sakura stared at him, uncomprehending at this sudden invasion of personal privacy, and then quickly regained her professionalism.

She knew she had a temper, and she wasn’t going to get disciplinary action because a patient complained about it. But this Sasori’s blunt invasiveness, especially with all that she had going on in her personal life—specifically the stalker—she was not feeling as forgiving as she might have normally.

“You’re right about that,” she said, taking a deep breath and then regaining her smile, even if it was mostly fake. “However, I will have to ask you to refrain from such personal comments, okay?” She tried to make her voice kind, but the way he was looking at her took Sakura she wasn’t fooling anybody. His sharp eyes seemed to cut into her, and something about his gaze was so appraising, so keen, that on top of the previous night’s events of that disgusting _drawing_ that she could barely stand it right then.

“Okay?” she reiterated, hoping to distract him from his staring. She had dealt with rude patients before. She could handle this.

“Of course, Sakura,” he said, and the way her name passed his lips made it sound dirty, somehow full of innuendo, and it sounded so strange to hear him say her name that she almost forgot that she had introduced herself with it.

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly to calm her nerves. If this was how she was reacting to a patient who had done absolutely nothing wrong, then she needed to get it together. He was her first patient of the day after doing her paperwork, and if she was having this kind of reaction just because he was male—even though she didn’t know, she felt it was rather probable that her stalker was a man—it might mean that she would need to beg off early that night. It would be too obvious if she asked to have another nurse switch out with her, so she would just have to keep her mind from going off on dangerous tangents.

Because Hiruko was the dangerous one, not Sasori. Sasori, who was in the ER because of poisoning.

Which led her to a topic of discussion that she hadn’t seen mentioned in his file, and although she hadn’t been told specifically to ask him about it, she didn’t think it would hurt.

“So, do you know if this poisoning was intentional? Do you need to have the police contacted?”

Sasori had never taken his eyes off of her, even while she had been lost in her own thoughts. She warred with herself internally to stop reading into behaviors and finding things that weren’t there.

“It was intentional,” he replied. At that, there was the first sign of emotion: a slight smirk playing about the corners of his lips as though he had just told a mildly funny joke. Sakura didn’t see what was so funny.

“Do you know who did it?” she pressed. “Because you can press char-”

“I do, and I won’t.” He was obviously impatient with this line of questioning, given his disinterest in allowing her to finish her sentence. Sakura frowned.

“If that’s what you think is best,” she murmured, and she couldn’t hide the disapproval in her voice. Silence reigned and she looked at him appraisingly, albeit unobtrusively.

If she hadn’t seen his temperature and blood pressure and didn’t have the charts, she honestly wouldn’t have thought there was anything wrong with him. However, science was her creed and she was disinclined to take subjective body language over hard data.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” he suddenly asked out of nowhere.

Sakura glanced up, having barely heard the question, lost in her thoughts as she was. “Hmm?”

“I was here a month and a half ago,” he said. He sounded less apathetic than he had before; in fact, there was an entirely new tone in his voice, but she couldn’t identify it. “You were my nurse then, too.”

Sakura blinked. She honestly didn’t remember him at all—but she couldn’t say that like that. Rarely were patients in the ER frequently enough to remember their nurses, even if they remembered the doctors, who were fewer and more memorable.

She frowned apologetically. “I’m sorry, I have so many patients coming in and out every day—well, you know how it is. I hope I took good care of you?”

Something unidentifiable flashed in his eyes, but she knew that whatever it was had been negative. She felt immensely guilty, but she wasn’t going to lie. Patients who remembered you but you didn’t remember would inevitably have details that you had probably forgotten just as much as their face, and eventually the lie would fall apart and both parties would be injured worse. It was better to be honest.

But Sasori responded without anger or disappointment in his voice. “Yes. It’s hard, isn’t it, working in such a fast-paced environment?”

Sakura shrugged. This was a line of questioning that shouldn’t have too many potholes. “Well, I actually like it quite a lot. I’m one of those people who thrives under high stress, you know?” She laughed, a hint of good-natured self-deprecation in her voice.

Sasori only studied her closely, his face so strangely expressionless. She was starting to feel more than just vaguely uncomfortable beneath that stare. “You seem like the kind of person who would like peace and quiet,” he commented.

“Well, I do,” she replied. “But I’ll get restless after too long. I’m an active person.” Realizing that this was becoming too much about herself, she asked in return, “What about you?”

Sasori declined to answer, instead facing frontwards and closing his eyes.

Still not even the slightest showing of discomfort. _A seven indeed,_ Sakura mused, recalling a few patients she had had in the past who had been clear hypochondriacs and had exaggerated their pain immensely. However, with Sasori, the science didn’t lie. The elevated blood pressure was likely the only sign of the pain he was in that she was going to get.

Silence permeated the room and Sakura went back to the chart, making notes here and there. Time passed slowly, and every ten minutes or so she would ask him about his pain and if he was feeling any better. By the end of the hour, he was outwardly unchanged, but he said that he was feeling much better already.

“I’m going to take your vitals,” she said, once again hooking him up to the blood pressure machine and then taking his temperature. Indeed, the fever was gone—he was a healthy 98.5. It seemed almost too good to be true.

Sasori was watching her again with that detached curiosity, but Sakura was no longer bothered.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked carefully once jotting down the numbers.

He looked at her for one long moment that felt like an eternity and then nodded.

“Good. Then I’m going to go talk with Dr. Hatake and see about getting you discharged.” She smiled brightly at him, which elicited exactly zero response, and so with slight irritation she left the room and went to go find Kakashi.

She was relieved of duty for Sasori and, once free from what she realized now had been an incredibly oppressive atmosphere, she took a moment in the bathroom to lean against the cool mirror and breathe in and out deeply. Sakura wasn’t sure what it was that was causing her to feel like she was, but she felt distinctly unsettled and she thought to herself that there was probably a reason she hadn’t remembered Sasori—he was creepy in the worst of ways, and surely anybody who was exposed to him wouldn’t want to remember the experience either. Unfortunately, though, she knew that even if she had forgotten the first time, she definitely wouldn’t now. Not for a long while.

Ugh.

The rest of the night went smoothly enough with the exception of a heart attack victim, but it was enough that Sakura could put her first patient out of her mind. Just after twelve she was released to go home, and she walked up the stairs to her apartment with a feeling of dread in her stomach.

However, when she arrived, there were no new notes or figurines—in fact, it looked exactly as she had left it before she went to work that afternoon. Exhaling heavily in relief, she finally felt uplifted enough to maybe not just go straight to bed. She slid her key into the keyhole, twisted, and stepped inside. Once she had closed the door behind her, there was a sudden hissing of pressurized air.

Startled, she glanced up in the direction of the noise and saw a noxious purple gas being blown into her face. She inhaled to scream, already knowing immediately that this was her stalker making his move, but it only shocked her senses with the gas.

She choked and her knees gave out immediately. She could feel the effect of strong sedatives, as her eyes closed involuntarily and her muscle function was shot in rapid succession. She hit the floor hard and with what little was left of her strength, she scrabbled into her purse for her phone.

A booted foot crunched down on her purse and her hand. Sakura let out a strangled cry, more from the sight of her hand under the person’s foot than actual pain. She couldn’t feel anything…anything…any…thing…

With one last bleary glance at the owner of the foot and seeing blood red hair and honey-colored eyes, Sakura finally succumbed to the fumes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Binge upload tonight! On AO3, I have updated this story, Surprise, Bitches!, and Modus Operandi. I hope you enjoy

Sakura woke up to the ripe scent of pine.

She didn’t move at first, more because she couldn’t rather than because she didn’t want to. Her eyes fluttered open, but only briefly because at that very moment she remembered what had happened. She caught a glimpse of moonlight—it could only have been hours since she was taken. After a long while of waiting for her brain to fight off the fuzziness the drug had created, and then a bit longer to gather her wits once they were available, Sakura was finally rational enough to open her eyes and try to figure out where she was and what, exactly, was going to happen to her now.

Also, how she was going to escape, of course.

But just as she was sitting up—strangely enough, she wasn’t restrained, which for a fleeting moment she was thankful for—a smooth, velveteen voice interrupted her immediate thoughts on how to take advantage of her situation.

“I see you’ve finally awakened.”

She startled and then tried to find the person the voice had come from, but he must have been in a part of the room that wasn’t illuminated by the pale moonlight.

She cleared her dry throat and tried to stay calm. “Where am I?”

“Your new home,” said the man, and it occurred to her that although she had only heard it a few times, it was recent enough that she recognized it.

“S-Sasori?” she questioned, a chill running down her spine. She decided to ignore his answer for the moment; it was just too horrifying. “Akasuna Sasori? F-from the hospital?”

“I’m glad to see you’re quick on the uptake,” he said in that emotionless tone. The way it was said left her thinking he was going to say more, but he didn’t.

Sakura was now attributing her calmness to pure shock. He’d implied this at the hospital, she recalled fuzzily. She’d been his nurse a month and a half ago, according to him, and the trinkets and notes had started just a few weeks after that. The timelines clicked, but the reasoning did not.

“Why?” she asked, certain that the question did not require elaboration. She was losing her level-headedness now, because the memory of that disgustingly explicit drawing of her, the very last note she had received before he made his move, had rushed to her head and she realized that while she had never wanted to give it any true thought, she knew.

She knew what he wanted. He had made it very clear to her, and the thought made her feel ill. She swallowed hard, waiting for an answer.

“That is a complicated question,” Sasori replied. “One that I do not have the patience to answer.”

“I think I deserve to know,” she spat, covering growing terror with anger. She had to stay steady. Keep him talking, she thought, so that he wouldn’t go straight to what he wanted. Keep him distracted so she could plan her escape and get out of here before he could do anything worse than kidnap her.

“You do,” he agreed, and then didn’t go on.

_Quick, think of something!_ She hesitated and glanced out the window. Because the rest of the room was in shadow and she couldn’t make out any viable escape plans in that direction—she didn’t know where he was, much less the door—she decided that the window was probably her best bet. She was almost certain she could punch through it and leap to safety. Now, just to keep him distracted…

“How long have I been out?” she asked, because questions seemed to be the only thing that would make him talk. He apparently had no inclination to speak on his own, which was unnerving in and of itself.

“Approximately three days,” he replied without inflection. For a long moment, the shock of the amount numbed her. Three _days_ , not three hours.

In that shock, she realized the scent of pine that was so rife in the room was because a block of it was being whittled. Now that no one was speaking, the soft slicing of a knife was audible, and with every sliver of wood that fell, the scent intensified.

Swallowing hard, she turned to look at the window. It was just high enough that she could jump, punch it, and roll out in the same movement.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Sasori said blandly. “We’re on the forty-sixth story.”

She wasn’t necessarily surprised that he had figured out her intention, but it was still upsetting. And the forty-sixth story? She didn’t know of any skyscrapers in Konoha that went that high. She hoped she was wrong, but it didn’t seem so unlikely that they could be elsewhere in the country. Three days could take her very far away indeed, no matter the mode of travel.

They sat in silence for a while, Sakura trying to focus on how she was going to get out of this while Sasori continued to chip away at the wood. In any other situation, the quiet might have been companionable, but not this one.

Eventually, frantic planning dissipated into hunger, and her stomach growled even though her immense anxiety made it hard to fathom eating right now.

“Come. Let’s get you something to eat.”

There was the sound of a chair scraping backwards and Sasori stood. Sakura also tentatively stood, not sure where he would be taking her. He seemed…docile, almost, so far. He hadn’t shown any particular signs of mental instability, which was both good and bad. Good, because unless he already planned to kill her, whether now or later, there was a better chance he wouldn’t fly into a rage or become delusional and speed up the process. Bad, because there was something terribly frightening about a person with no compunctions against breaking the law and harming another human being so, well, _normal_. Either way, though, Sasori was dangerous. She would be a fool to underestimate him.

“Stay there,” he ordered, a sudden sharpness to his voice that made her instinctively pause. It was that specific order and the sharpness inflected that brought forth to her mind that no, she wasn’t restrained, and she had martial arts training.

_Stupid, stupid!_ She _wasn’t restrained!_ She could _fight._

But she listened in that moment, trying to affect the same calmness that she’d had before the adrenaline rush of her realization that she wasn’t helplessly bound.

Too late, she realized that her fists were clenched, and this Sasori had to be very observant even in the darkness, because he said mildly, “You _could_ fight back, I suppose. But it wouldn’t end well for you.”

She couldn’t help it. “I guess that depends on what ‘ending well’ looks like,” she snarled, and honing in on the direction she had heard him speaking, she shot forward, fist flying.

With considerable strength that she certainly hadn’t expected from him, his arm came down on her forearm, deflecting her attack, and with the advantage of her being illuminated by the moon, brought his knee up into her stomach before she could protect the wide opening she had been left with.

Winded and shocked at the brutal efficacy of his movements—Sakura hadn’t realized how rusty she was until this moment, but it could also have been sloppiness due to the severity of the situation—Sakura fell to her knees, retching. It also didn’t help that her body wasn’t quite at full capacity yet and his retaliation had been so abrupt and inexplicably unexpected that she was taken aback.

It felt like an eternity before she could recover—to run this time—but in reality it was only a few seconds due to the adrenalin flowing through her veins and keeping her grounded. It was still enough for Sasori to make his next move, and she felt the small prick of a needle in the back of her neck.

He sounded annoyed when he spoke next, in the way that a parent scolds their child for doing something that they had been warned not to do. “I told you it wouldn’t end well for you. I suppose we’ll try again next time.”

And then she felt her hands and feet grow numb, with the feeling rapidly approaching her torso. She was unconscious the next moment.

 

The next time Sakura woke up, the sun was definitely out, but she couldn’t tell much else due to the curtains drawn over the window. It was warm where she lay, and she realized that she had been tucked under the covers of the twin bed she was on. It took a moment longer this time to remember what was going on, and once her faculties were regained she realized that he—Sasori—must have used a stronger drug this time. She didn’t want to know how long she’d been unconscious.

Unfortunately, unlike the time previous, when she tried to move she found that she was restrained to the bed. The ties were loose where they were attached to the bed frame, allowing her a modicum of movement, although tight around her ankles and wrists. There wouldn’t be any wriggling out of them, but perhaps she could…

After straining against the ties futilely for a few long minutes, she realized that the restraints had been secured in such a position that she wouldn’t be able to get the leverage she needed to break them. She exhaled sharply in frustration, tears pricking her eyes. Things weren’t looking too good right now, especially since it seemed her situation had taken a turn for the worse. And now that she was restrained, he could do anything that he wanted to-

The thought occurred to her in such a violent fashion that she whimpered, and in the next instant she was feeling her body to make sure she was still clothed, because Sasori could do _anything_ to her while she was unconscious, and there wouldn’t have been anything she could do about it.

She was lucky yet again—she was completely clothed, and a wiggle of her hips showed no residual feeling of the slight rawness that came with sex. She took a moment to scan her body to the best of her capabilities, but nothing seemed out of place. The exhalation of relief that came with that realization almost winded her with its strength.

But she wasn’t out of the woods yet.

It was then that she was reminded of her hunger, which had not been sated due to her attempted attack on Sasori. Once she was aware of it, the aching of her empty stomach became unbearable, and she groaned quietly as it felt like her stomach was folding in on itself.

She started to struggle again, but it was the same as before. She wasn’t going to be getting out of her restraints unless someone else did it for her, and that would mean Sasori would have to be present to untie her.

Sakura wasn’t sure if it was the drug or the seeming hopelessness of the situation, but she began to cry. She wasn’t too big on crying; she had been when she was younger, but as she aged and matured she no longer felt right displaying her emotions for all to see. Ino had told Sakura that she would always be a person who wore their heart on their sleeve, and due to what felt like a challenge, she had started making a concerted effort to be less emotional.

However, in this case, Sakura felt like she was allowed a little leniency. She sobbed quietly to herself as tears rolled down her temples and into her hair and the pillow beneath her. She didn’t _want_ to cry, necessarily, but it was all she could really do in this situation.

She laid there for what seemed like hours. The tears ran out more quickly than she had expected them to, but perhaps she was just too tired at that point to even cry. Unfortunately, that led to a sort of panicked boredom, and she found herself restlessly shifting, again trying to see if she could somehow escape, even knowing the futility of it all.

However, when there was the sound of a lock being turned—from the outside, and of course Sasori would not only restrain her effectively as well as lock her in the room; she had already seen the compulsive perfectionist in him from the way the notes had been meticulously folded—Sakura immediately wished for that panicked boredom again.

The door opened, and Sasori walked in with a tray of food in his hands.

“Good, you’re awake,” he said. “Are you willing to cooperate this time?”

_No,_ she wasn’t, and apparently it showed on her face, because his lips quirked down into a frown.

“Very well, then.” He placed the tray on her thighs and, pulling the blanket back—she flinched at the nearness—he untied the cord restraining her right hand.

Sakura’s immediate instinct was to punch his lights out and then, while he was unconscious, untie herself and flee, but with too much clarity she remembered the last time she attacked him and she knew that the chances of success in another attack were low. Especially since she had little to no mobility.

“Eat,” he ordered when she just sat there. “I didn’t bring you here for you to die of starvation.”

Sakura sneered. “You have a funny way of pronouncing ‘kidnapped,’” she spat.

Sasori raised one eyebrow, completely unimpressed. “You have fifteen minutes. Eat.” And then he walked away and left the room. There was the click of three locks this time.

“Damn it,” she hissed, then stared down at the food on her plate.

Rice, salted salmon, and egg. Not the most appetizing meal, but she’d take it. Then she could work on freeing herself.

Sakura ate slowly despite her hunger, taking careful bites and keeping an eye out for any drugs. Sasori had effectively drugged her twice and she wasn’t about to take any chances, even if it would be odd to do it with her completely at his mercy. She was begrudgingly impressed by his knowledge of poisons, but it still-

She almost choked when she gasped with food in her mouth.

He’d been in the emergency room for poisoning.

_Sasori had poisoned himself to get to her._

No matter how hungry she’d been before and no matter how little she’d managed to eat so far, Sakura’s appetite was abruptly gone. The fact that he had poisoned himself just to—get close to her? That was terrifying. It was so beyond the realm of common sense and sanity that Sakura couldn’t even bear to think about it.

She tried to force down a few more bites, but was mostly unsuccessful. Instead, she pushed her food around the plate and tried not to let fear rule her. She was going to have to revise her assessment of Sasori’s sanity.

Fifteen minutes was neither too long nor too short; it just was. Sakura was lost in her thoughts and couldn’t manage to snap out of her horrified reverie until the three locks clicked again and Sasori entered.

When he saw how little she’d eaten, he made disapproving face. “I can force feed you if it comes to it,” he told her with an edge of annoyance in his voice.

“I just wasn’t hungry,” Sakura replied dully. She had a split-second impulse to hurl the tray at him, and had to clench her hands into tight fists to fight off the urge.

“Then you should work on being hungry for next time,” Sasori said irritably. He obviously didn’t believe her one bit. “Otherwise, you’ll find out just how unpleasant eating can be.”

Sakura shuddered, and Sasori picked up the tray and left. Only one lock clicked behind him this time.

She immediately began to tug at the ties on her feet. Sasori would undoubtedly be back since he hadn’t locked up thoroughly behind him when he left, and he was certainly going to make sure both of her hands were tied, but untying her feet would be two less things she had to untie on her next bid for freedom.

Except that her feet were trapped by zip ties. She wouldn’t be fighting her way free of those without a handy pair of scissors, and of course Sasori wouldn’t be letting her have access to those any time soon.

She growled in frustration. _Of course_ he would. Of course the perfectionist would think of everything. She had to be the unluckiest kidnapping victim in the world to have Sasori as her assailant.

Sakura tried to think hard and fast. If he was returning, then it was likely he planned to commence the activities he was interested in with her. Her stomach clenched painfully at the thought—why did it have to be sexual, of all things?—and in desperation, she looked around the room for anything that could aid her. The window wasn’t going to help her at all, and there was little furniture in the room other than the bed she was laying on, a nightstand to her left, and…an easel? He really hadn’t left her with anything to work with, and she had to fight back a scream of frustration.

She couldn’t just let him _rape_ her. She might be a victim, but certainly she couldn’t be as helpless as it seemed. This couldn’t really be happening…right?

Before she could get much farther in her thoughts, the lock clicked open and in walked Sasori. Strangely enough, he carried a tray of art supplies and a fresh canvas.

He didn’t so much as glance at her as he set everything up, but Sakura couldn’t stop herself from watching him, baffled. She told herself not to let her guard down, but there wasn’t much she could do anyways, despite her wishes for that not to be true. The only thing she couldn’t figure out was what kind of perversion could he have to require art supplies and a canvas. She was going to find out whether she liked it or not, but it scared her all the same.

But then he pulled out three tubes of paint and started mixing them. Sakura looked on, fascinated and terrified at the same time, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It never did.

As soon as the colors were mixed to his satisfaction, Sasori took out a graphite pencil and began to sketch an outline. Only then did he look at her, and all she could do was stare back.

Then he was back to sketching, and after what felt like an hour later, he began painting. Only occasionally would he glance back at her, as though evaluating or appraising something, and then he would return to painting. Sakura had no idea what was going on, but after a while, staying so tense and on-guard was too much and she relaxed a little.

He painted until he was apparently satisfied with the progress he’d made, then began to pack up the supplies before leaving. Sakura then took the time to get back into the mindset of fighting him off, no matter how futile it might be. Surely _now_ he would do what he planned to.

However, when he returned, the only thing he brought was an apple, perhaps meant to be a snack. Sakura stared at it with confusion and wariness, during which time he snuck in a kiss to her forehead. She shrieked and jerked away, and he frowned, clearly displeased.

Then he left and she didn’t seem him again for the rest of the day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! So many people have been asking for an update that even though this chapter is shorter than usual, I decided to put it out there.
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks!

Chapter 3

Sakura was…baffled.

Absolutely baffled.

According to the sunlight that filtered in regularly through the curtains—they thankfully weren’t the blackout kind—she counted four days since she had woken up for the second time in Sasori’s ‘care.’ He fed her three times a day and after his last threat telling her that she could find out just how unpleasant it could be to eat, and she didn’t doubt that he could make it so, she had forced down the food he gave her. On the third day, when he served her the typical combination of rice, fish, and vegetables, as well as anko dango and Sakura had been wondering at her luck that he’d never once fed her something she didn’t like, whether it was avoiding certain seasonings or an additional dessert such as the dango, she’d realized something horrible.

He’d known her past with sickening clarity. All her hobbies over the years, as well as those current, had been displayed by him with a sort of intimacy that made her stomach twist. `What was to say he hadn’t found out what kinds of food she liked, and was using that knowledge against her now?

She’d contemplated a hunger strike, and hadn’t finished her next two meals. The afternoon of the fourth day, when she’d skipped both dinner the night before and that morning’s breakfast, he’d walked in with full hands: a tray of food, steaming with the scent of her favorite spices and mouth-watering umeboshi balanced carefully on his left, and on his right…

A sterile package including a feeding tube and the necessary equipment to install it.

She hadn’t missed a meal since.

That wasn’t the worst of it, though. There were also the hours upon hours that he spent in her prison every day, painting and whittling and sculpting in complete and utter silence. Occasionally he would look at her, sometimes only a glance and other times to stare, but that was the extent of their interaction. Not once had he made any move to rape her. The only sign of anything, in fact, were the kisses he’d laid on her forehead when he served dinner for the night. She still flinched and jerked away, eliciting an annoyed glance, but otherwise: nothing.

Sakura was unnerved, and frightened, and anxious beyond belief, waiting for him to get to the point. Every day that passed left her more confused and more frightened. What was he waiting for? What did he want from her?

_What the hell was going on?_

So, at the one-week mark, she swallowed her fear and when he arrived to spend the day with her—he was working with watercolors today—Sakura demanded, “What the hell do you want from me?”

Her voice was hoarse from disuse, but it came out clearly enough. Sasori paused in setting up his paints before turning and looking at her.

“Perhaps not as quick on the uptake as I had assumed,” he murmured, but it didn’t sound like he was actually speaking to her. She waited for him to say more, to elaborate for once. All he did was turn back to mixing his paints.

Another long few moments passed, and she snapped. “Let’s just assume that I’m an idiot,” she said, conceding the point only because it might result in answers. “What _the hell_ do you want from me?”

This time, when he turned to look at her, there was a hint of irritation in his eyes. “You’re not ‘an idiot,’” he corrected, and Sakura couldn’t help but be surprised at the vehemence in his voice. “If you were, you wouldn’t be suitable as my companion.”

She could only gape.

“You consider this…companionship?” she said, aghast. “I’m tied to a bed against my will, and all you do all day is your own thing! We don’t talk! I don’t know you at all! You don’t know me at all! We’re not friends in any sense of the term! And, if you haven’t figured it out yet, I _don’t want to be here!_ That’s not companionship!”

Sasori frowned severely at her. “I have no need for useless chatter,” he said.

“Really? That’s what you take away from all that?” Sakura was almost certain she was going to lose her mind, like Sasori clearly already had. She took a steadying breath to maintain her cool. Something told her, a gut instinct perhaps, that he could be reasoned with. “If you wanted to be my friend, you could have just, I don’t know, asked me to hang out sometime.” Although she probably would have said no. That wasn’t the point. “There are so many other ways to get companionship. Kidnapping someone isn’t one of those!”

“I don’t want to be your _friend_ ,” Sasori told her coldly, as though the thought disgusted him. “There are other connotations to the word ‘companion.’”

While Sakura sat there, staring at him with icy dread settling in her stomach, Sasori dipped his brush in the blue paint and went on to begin his artistic endeavor for the day. Sakura’s eyes followed the movements of his hand, but she couldn’t take in any of what she was seeing.

Companion. Yes, there were other connotations, as he had said. The one that came to mind immediately was ‘escort,’ and Sakura didn’t want to consider that. She would never sell herself like he was implying he wanted. And if he was so desperate for companionship, like he had to be in order to literally kidnap someone so that they would spend time with him, he could just hire someone, couldn’t he? If he went to the right place he wasn’t breaking the law, only the spirit of it, and Sakura could go on about her life.

She made, in hindsight, what was a very stupid decision and asked him this.

There was something terrifying about the way he tensed at her suggestion, his paint brush lowering slowly like he was shocked at her audacity. What the worst, though, was that he didn’t even turn to look at her as he spoke, but his low, dangerous voice told her that she had done something very bad.

“Haruno Sakura,” he said. “Valedictorian at Leaf Academy, the most prestigious private school in Konoha. Accepted into Senju University for premed school, graduated with highest honors. Warm, loving, and adored by many. You were always popular at school, had little boys swooning over you at a flip of your hair.” Sakura couldn’t help but redden, about to object, because she didn’t particularly like him singing her praises in this horrifying tone, or at all, really, but when he spoke next, she found herself speechless. “All that talent and potential, and you wasted it on nursing. You didn’t aim to become a doctor, but settled for second best. You could have done anything with your life, gone anywhere. You chose not to.

“So, I will hone that potential. You will be my greatest work of art, and you will be _mine._ ”

His tone was so final that for a moment, Sakura believed him.

Then she snapped out of it, ignoring the roiling of her stomach. “And how does companionship factor into that?” she asked with a trembling voice. She was shaking visibly, her body vibrating with fear.

“I will only have the best as my companion,” he said.

Then he resumed painting, and Sakura was so stunned by his intentions, by what he was insinuating, by the fury and indignation she felt at his disdain at her choice of career, of utter terror of what honing her potential looked like—she doubted he would be sending her back to medical school—that she could only sit in silence, unwilling to comprehend what he had told her.

She must have really angered him, she realized when he left the room much earlier than day. It wasn’t that she was particularly unhappy about pissing him off—he deserved it for what he was putting her through—but rather that she wondered if she was about to face some kind of punishment. The thought riled and terrified her at the same time, but there wasn’t much she could do about it except to wait for him to act.

But he didn’t act, at least not right away. It was more of a failure to act: he didn’t bring her dinner that night.

Nor did he bring her breakfast the next morning, or lunch. By the time the sun was going down, Sakura realized she wouldn’t be receiving dinner, either, and the thought made her moan with hunger.

Somehow, though the resulting feeling was the same, it was worse to be starved against her will than to be doing it to herself.

She recognized the signs of hypoglycemia when tears started rolling down her cheeks despite how she tried to stop them. She hadn’t cried since she had first found herself restrained, trying to hold on to rationality and calm with every iota of her being. But the tears wouldn’t be curbed now, and coupled with the aching pain in her stomach, she found herself wholly miserable. Falling asleep had never been harder nor more relieving.

The next morning, she was startled awake by fingers brushing her mussed hair out of her eyes. She jerked weakly, but couldn’t find it within herself to react any more violently than that. Her eyes fluttered open to see Sasori standing over her, but she didn’t flinch away, instead letting him do what he wanted. Although she didn’t want to admit it, she was more than a little afraid of angering him again and going that much longer without food.

And it was at that point that she smelled the delicious scent of…tsukemen? It wasn’t something she would often seek out, but it smelled so heavenly at that moment that she wouldn’t complain for the life of her.

Sasori set the tray down on her lap, then untied her right hand. She made to sit up, but a stilling hand on her chest made her pause.

“Will you cooperate?”

Sakura hesitated, not sure what he was getting at, but decided that even if he was about to rape her, she didn’t have much choice and she would do anything for the food. Mutely, she nodded.

He untied her left hand, allowing her to sit up comfortably for the first time in a long while, and she sighed in relief. It took more than a little willpower to not run with the inch of freedom he’d given her, but she managed. She couldn’t mess this up now.

Sasori handed her a pair of chopsticks and she got to work, trying not to eat too quickly so she didn’t upset her stomach. Her captor left then, and Sakura wondered at his confidence at her obedience, but she knew he wasn’t mistaken. The zip-ties weren’t going to break on their own, and even with two free hands, there wasn’t much she could do to escape. While that was disheartening, she was just happy to have food available to her again.

Sasori returned shortly, just as Sakura was finishing up the tsukemen. He removed the tray, left again, and returned with his art supplies. Sakura leaned back against the bed as best she could and decided to just watch him work.

Despite her previous boredom, it was the first time she actually paid attention to what he was painting. He started off with broad, near shapeless strokes, and Sakura could only wonder what on earth he was painting. But soon, the strokes started to line up with and meet each other, and when the outline of a woman was presented, Sakura felt a sinking sensation in her stomach.

But she continued to watch as he added finer details, and she was soon gratified to realize that this woman wasn’t her. Not this time, at least, which was enough to make her stomach settle. She saw all the deft movements of his hand, sometimes tiny and sometimes like lashes across the canvas, and wondered for the first time at his skill. He really did know what he was doing, and she wondered if the reason he spent every day in here painting, sculpting, or otherwise doing art was because he actually sold his things for money.

She hadn’t seen any of the apartment—condo?—penthouse?—but she assumed that it was expensive, or at least _cost money,_ and since he didn’t leave for a nine-to-five job, it seemed reasonable.

Tentatively, she decided to ask.

He paused in his strokes and turned to her. There was something in his eyes that wasn’t quite as cold as usual, and Sakura had the feeling she’d pleased him with her question. She hated that that brought a wave of relief so strong through her that she realized she had been afraid of angering him.

Just as quickly, that relief was followed by shame, and she couldn’t help the way her shoulders turned inward because of it.

But Sasori interrupted that by speaking. “I do sell my work,” he said calmly. Sakura slowly looked up to make eye contact with him again. “Unfortunately for most, I have reached a point in my career that I am unaffordable for them.”

The arrogant comment spoken in such a matter-of-fact tone made her snort and it was unexpected and completely out of her control. But she saw Sasori’s eyes narrow, clearly thinking she was mocking him, and while that kind of _had_ been the case, she raised her hands quickly to show that that wasn’t.

“It’s not that,” she said hastily. “The delivery was just…dry. I like dry humor.”

“It wasn’t humor,” he replied shortly. “My last painting sold for 550,000 ryo.”

All traces of amusement fled her and her throat constricted for a brief moment in surprise. “F-five hundred and fifty _thousand_ ryo?” she demanded, and she couldn’t keep the disbelieving tone out of her voice. “B-b-but…”

“B-b-but what?” he mocked sarcastically. “If you’re going to speak, think before doing so and keep your thoughts organized so that you are understood clearly. Don’t go stammering about like a blathering idiot.”

Sakura snapped her jaw shut so fast her teeth clicked, thoroughly angry and ashamed. Who was he to tell her how to think or speak? Then she remembered his comment about honing her potential, and she understood the intent of his rude comment, even if she didn’t like it.

If she thought about it, it wasn’t like it was necessarily bad criticism; it was bad only because it was coming from him. But, if it would make her temporary captivity easier, she supposed she could comply.

Not that she really wanted to speak anymore, but she did anyways.

She cleared her throat before saying steadily, “I was just surprised that you made that much money. I can appreciate art, but I’d never pay that much money for a painting.”

Sasori looked back at her—he had turned to his art again after scolding her—and there was something akin to approval in his eyes. Sakura swallowed hard, not sure how that made her feel but not liking it all the same. “That’s because you’ve never had that much money in your bank account at one time, much less able to be used to buy priceless pieces of art.”

Sakura almost— _almost_ —asked how he knew that, but she already knew the answer. She was starting to think he knew more about her than she did, and wasn’t that just terrifying?

The realization soured her mood, and she went back to not speaking. Sasori wasn’t terribly concerned by this, or concerned at all in the first place, and continued his painting.

She was left with dark thoughts, many along the lines of how her knowledge of his income affected her escape plan. Naturally, with such a high number, it wasn’t a positive effect. No wonder he could afford to do things like poison himself. With his kind of income, he probably had his own damn lab in this very condo, or more likely, penthouse. And he could get rare ingredients without breaking a sweat, and afford security precautions, and pretty much do whatever the hell he wanted with that kind of money.

And here she was, not even knowing where she _was._

Sakura felt a sort of hopelessness settle over her.

She had a feeling she was going to be here for a very long time.


End file.
